


Big, Loud, Crazy (the Wedding Party)

by Army C (arh581958)



Series: #GallavichWeek [18]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Blowjobs, Canon-Compliant, Day 4 - Wedding/Honeymoon, Domestic, EMT!Ian, Fluff, GW2017B, Gallaghers - Freeform, Gallavich Week 2017 B, Goodbro!Gallaghers, Goodbro!Milkoviches, Lap Dances, M/M, Mechanic!Mickey, Mickey being embarassed, Non-canon-compliant, Past Stripper!Ian, Romantic Fluff, Weddings, family and friends, sexual fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 11:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12839778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: The wedding—though held only in Alibi’s duty second floor decorated in a gaudy art-project-like manner—was short and simple; just the way Mickey preferred.What came after, though, was completely different.Mickey may have won for the ceremony but the after-party was a completely different story.





	Big, Loud, Crazy (the Wedding Party)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gallavich Week 2017 B Day 4 - Wedding
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Not beta-read. _Open to volunteers_.
> 
> My Motto is "Better Late than Never"

Everybody Knew about the wedding. Who didn’t? Well, maybe not everybody. Only the essential people knew. By essential, it meant family—not even friends or significant others or children—just family. A total of eight people attended the wedding. One was only half-invited

Frank Gallagher, in true fashion, arrived shit-faced two minutes into the ceremony, declaring himself patriarch of the Gallagher clan with exclusive right to give any of his children away—even the bastards—while singing sonnets about never-ending love, literally. The man couldn’t carry a single tune to save his life.

Still, it was perfect.

Both wore three-piece rentedwewd suits for the occasion: Mickey’s midnight blue with a black shirt, light grey vest, and silk white while Ian’s emerald green with a white shirt, black vest, a matching bowtie and black pants.

The wedding—though held only in Alibi’s duty second floor decorated in a gaudy art-project-like manner—was short and simple; just the way Mickey preferred.

What came after, though, was completely different.

Mickey may have won for the ceremony but the after-party was a completely different story.

Ian wanted the biggest, loudest, craziest party around. This one was open to both family and friends. Friends were Ian’s, though, a handful of Mickey’s garage co-workers, and his cousins. Of course, everyone drank their own body weight in Kev’s non-watered-down tap beer. Carl even found a way to bring in a case of neat alcohol for the ‘private table’. The rest of the tables were pushed to the sides.

“To the groom and groom!” Lip roared, raising his pint with voice raspy from drunkenness. He stood near the edge. Liam looked to the crowd in fascination from one of the booth couches. Dear old Frank was passed out on the table.

Beside him, Fiona’s large quiet smile couldn’t be described by word. “Finally, the stupid-ass motherfuckers get their heads out of their asses—at least one of us deserve their fairytale ending. I’m glad it was Ian.”

Debbie was on the makeshift dance floor dancing over Tom’s wheelchair, whom carried little Franny to his chest. Across the room, Mandy was flirting with her newest sugar-daddy—a man whose name no one would remember after tonight but whose pocket sponsored the whole bill.

Veronica and Kevin were behind the counter, as usual, manning the bar with one of Mickey’s cousins, Colins, helping them. Iggy, yet another Milkovich cousin, brought enough food to feed a starving army from the small family-owned Chinese restaurant where he worked.

Some of Ian’s co-workers from the rig came as well. They sat near the wall, chairs facing outward. The cake, which lay in the middle of the private table, was sponsored by Sue, their boss, who unfortunately couldn’t make it.

Where was Mickey and Ian?

Well, half an hour into the party, the two disappeared into the backroom. Many sounds and weird noises have come from Alibi’s hidden depths. Everyone else was polite enough not to ask questions. The pair reemerged looking rumpled but satisfied.

“Fine-fucking-ly! We thought you’d never come out!” Debbie said, being the first to spot them. Tom blushed coyly beside her, his face conflicted. He never really met Mickey prior to the wedding. Half of him wanted to say a ton of praises for being strong, out, and proud but he was too scared of this thug-like man who was essentially his brother-in-law through his brother-in-law.

“Oiy, haven’t ya still learned ta shut’ap, little red?” Mickey said in exasperation. His face may have had a scowl but his voice gave away his fondness.

Debbie grinned. “With you? Nah! Ian’s gonna stop you from beating me up. Aren’t you, Ian?”

Ian stepped-up from behind Mickey. His long arms wrapped around Mickey’s middle in a loose circle while his chin rested on Mickey’s shoulder. He sported a suave mid-length comb-over, parted three-fourths the way from his right side.

“Sorry, Debs, we’re gonna be too busy fucking like bunnies on every possible surface to even think of you,” he said casually, “Right, Mic—coww!”

“You shut it too, Firecrotch.” Mickey rubbed ran a finger over the knuckle he’d jabbed Ian with. “What did I say about flaunting our private shit, ya?”

Carl, who’d been manning the DJ booth-slash-laptop, chose that moment to slow things down. Everyone in the room immediately knew what it meant. Those on the floor began clearing.

“Get on it, asshole!” He yelled, giving them two thumbs-up. “Dance your first gay dance, you queens!”

“It’s _Kings_ ,” Mickey growled back, flipping Carl the double-bird while smiling. He turned to look at Ian—at his husband. The wedding may not have been a hundred percent legal. They didn’t sign any official-looking paper like when he married Svetlana but _this_ felt _realer_ than that first one.

Ian was staring back at him with a big closed-mouth grin. “Kings, huh? Finally got the fag-hating shit out of your system, Mickey?”

“Fuck, no,” Mickey rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Still can’t stand fags. ‘Specially when they’ve got eyes all over _my husband_.”

They both unconsciously drew closer. Even in a room surrounded by their closest family and friends, cocooned their own warmth. Mickey angled his head up and Ian bent down slightly at the shoulders. Their noses met while their lips remained centimeters apart, noses brushing each other.

“You’ve always been a possessive motherfucker, haven’t you, Mick? I remember you threatening one of the guys back in the good-old days, huh? What series where they referencing too again?” He asked, arms warm around Mickey’s hips while they swayed to the music.

“I don’t give two fucks,” answered Mickey. He looped his arms around Ian’s neck and pulled their bodies closer together. “I’m still gonna break all fifteen knuckles of anyone who tries to touch you.”

They both chuckled at the inside joke, caught—for a moment—in their own world.

“Yo, Ian!” Lip shouted over the music in a slur. “Why don’t you show that new husband of yours some of your old moves, huh? Back when you was all glitter-tops and booty-shorts. I’ll tip ya fifty-bucks, up front.” He waved the crumpled, beer-soaked, bill. “Hey, asshole,” he directed to Mickey, “this one’s on me!”

Fiona conspiratorially dragged a chair to the floor with a waggle of her eyebrows.

Mickey blushed scarlet red from his ears down to his neck when he saw it.

“Oh no,” he groaned, shaking his head violently. “Nope, nope, nope. I ain’t dancing on that thing, fuck-face. Get that damn chair off the floor before I break it over your head!” He shot daggers to Fiona and Lip’s way.

Ian laughed out loud.

“Aww, come on,” he said, guiding Mickey by the hands. “Who said you were doing the dancing?” He pushed Mickey down on the chair then moved back, running hands over his body along the way. One look towards Carl and the music changed yet again. This time the tempo remained quick but the beat became more prominent. “Sit back, relax, enjoy the show. It’s only for you, babe.”

Mickey thumbed at his bottom lip, pink tongue darting out.

Well, fuck if he didn’t. How could he resist when Ian looked like a living-breathing wet dream? If he’d ever be honest, Ian had been the only star of all his wet dreams since he was seventeen. They were pushing to their thirties now. Finally, the boyhood fantasies were becoming reality one by one.

Ian started by gyrating his hip, actions slow and sensual in perfect timing to the music.

Yet another asshole who wanted a broken nose flicked off the lights.

Ian was submerged in a dim sea of gaudy blue, green, and red strobe lights. The darkness boosted his confidence. He bit his lips while he ran his hands suggestively over his body. Green eyes never once leaving Mickey’s for a second.

To Mickey, Ian looked absolutely breathtaking. He felt his spent dick twitch inside his pants in a valiant effort to get back into the game. Ian’s cum from earlier remained plugged inside him. The sensation between uncomfortableness and arousal made Mickey squirm on the wooden chair, back ramrod straight against the backrest while white-knuckles held onto the chair.

“Take it off! Take it off!” Loud shouts came from the crowd.

Ian eyed Mickey, seemingly waiting for permission.

“What’cha fuckin’ waitin’ for? A presidential decree?” Mickey shot back with a snort. He forced himself to relax—to slouch a little, breathe a little, and loosen up a little. Legs widened their stance as he ran his hands over his thighs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Ian knew a challenge when he heard one.

“Is that right?” He intoned, casually stripping his jacket. He threw it behind in the general direction of the booths. His long legs carried him into Mickey’s space in three wide steps. Arms draped around Mickey’s shoulders as he hovered over his husband’s lap. “Keep your hands where I want them, then, Mick. Touch me and you lose the game.”

Ian did quick work of untying Mickey’s haphazardly done necktie. Then, he flipped—back to Mickey’s front, grinding his ass on Mickey’s half-cub. The white silk fabric crisscrossed over his chest as he rolled his spine.

Mickey let out a squeak. Hands fisted on his thighs. Ian’s weight, warmth, and sweat-covered scent drove him mad with arousal. His nipples peaked under his shirt, raw from being rubbed and suckled on all morning. He felt embarrassment from telltale prickle of milk raising to the surface.

“Ian,” he moaned.

“Don’t give up the game so quick, babe.”

Ian let go. He spun around quickly to straddle Mickey face-to-face. Hands guided Mickey’s to his ass.

“Stay there,” he ordered, as he carded his fingers through his gelled-up red hair. The strands came apart and fell to every direction. It was one crazy kind of sex-hair. He rolled back once more, hips brushing Mickey’s face on every other turn.

There was more whistling from the crowd but he only had ears for Mickey’s noises.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey breathed out. Hands clenching and unclenching on Ian’s ass. “You’re one goddamn sexy motherfucker.”

Ian burst into a small fit of laughter. It only ended when he leaned down to press their lips together lightly. Mickey chased his lips when they parted. Teeth latched on to Ian’s bottom lip as Mickey silently begged for another deeper and much longer kiss. Ian was all too happy to oblige.

“Oiy, get fucking on with it!” Someone yelled from somewhere behind Mickey. It was probably Kevin but neither of them bothered to confirm it.

 “Get back here,” Mickey growled as Ian reluctantly pulled away.

Ian playfully wiggled his index finger. “I’m gonna end up dry-humping you in front of everyone.”

“Do I look like a fucking care, asshole?” Mickey reached for his belt loops but Ian hopped away. “We had our blood spilled all over this shit. Fuckin’ already spilt blood ‘ere on this fukin’ floor for ya.”

“Not right now, now,” Ian said, tutting, “but you will when the catcalls start from the garage. Then, it’s gonna be prissy you, sulking for about a week. I hate it when you sulk, Mick, our sex life dries up like powdered milk!”

Mickey snorted, feeling his nipples tighten as a conditioned response. He hasn’t been try in ages. “Powdered milk, huh? I don’t think that’s gonna happen any time soon.” Still, he lowered in hands in surrender, accepting the truth. He no longer may have been the cowardly boy that he once was but he wasn’t exactly waving the rainbow flag either. Discreet was how he played it.

“Not on my watch,” Ian promised. “Now, sit there and eyes on me, Mick. I’m gonna give you special service tonight.”

Mickey licked the taste of Ian from his lips. “Bring it, Firecrotch.”

Those words were trouble the second he uttered them.

Mickey recognized the mischievous glint in Ian’s eyes. He dry-swallowed. Alcohol buzzed in his system. It was enough to make him relinquish some control, allowing himself to enjoy the spectacular display of skill and skin.

Ian had unknotted his tie and undone the first button of his wrinkled white shirt. His hips rocked with the music. Hands teased at his belt, tugging and pulling at edge of his shirt. The white tails escaped his pants. A hint of his creamy white stomach peaked out, with the short curly ginger hairs of his happy trail along with it.

This time, Mickey didn’t hold back his moan. His hands itched to touch. His dress pants became tight. His dick tented his crotch.

Ian beamed in pride upon seeing Mickey’s reaction.

One by one, the rest of his buttons followed until the shirt hung loosely from his frame. He was a sight of debauched raunchiness—flushed chest under the damp white fabric, hair askew in every direction, sweat glistening all over his skin. His little red happy trail pointed south towards his pants.

He approached Mickey with a predator-like prowl, stopping only when he was about an inch away. Hands cupped the back of Mickey’s head. He drew the brunette to him on the next thrust. The action was precise and controlled, holding Mickey’s face centimeters above his heated flesh.

Mickey gripped the back of Ian’s thighs—hard.

Ian pulled back once more, long enough to unbuckle his belt and pry his pants open.

Mickey, at once, was assaulted by the thick scent of Ian’s arousal. His mouth salivated like a dog for it. He imagined the taste of Ian in his mouth.

Ian tipped his head down, staring at Mickey. He bit his bottom lip. One finger slipped under the garter of his underwear, teasingly moving it down to his pelvic bone. Being a fit EMT had its benefits. The required physical conditioning also meant that Ian kept a toned body. He had a prominent sex-cut on his hips.

Mickey didn’t resist anymore. He darted out at licked along the line wetly.

They both moaned at the contact.

Ian kept his hands cupped behind Mickey’s head, but allowed Mickey to lead.

Mickey nosed at Ian’s crotch greedily as if he couldn’t get enough of the scent. He buried his nose at the crease where Ian’s leg met his hip. One hand lifted Ian’s thigh over his shoulder. Then, he started rubbing his face along the hard outline of Ian’s cock.

“Mickey, you goddamn _fucker_ ,” Ian exhaled as his standing leg shook, “You’re gonna make me cum in my fucking pants!”

“Not the first time.”

“Move!”

When Mickey did move, he mouthed openly at the fabric near Ian’s crotch. He no longer cared for the crowd around them. Lips parted as he attacked Ian’s cock from over the dress pants. He tasted the barest hint of Ian’s precum underneath the later of detergent and sweat.

“Mick, stop!” Ian hissed, pulling Mickey’s hair. “I’m not even half-done with my dance!”

Mickey had a vise-like grip on Ian’s hips. “Bare with it, fucker. I’m gonna blow you right fucking now with your stupid fucking pants still on.”

Ian latched onto to Mickey’s shoulder for dear life. His cock throbbed painfully inside his rented slacks. It strained up, begging for his new husband’s attention. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be more embarrassed to fuck in the middle of Alibi. It was a far though when Mickey added teeth into the mix. His knees show with the effort to keep standing. The heat of Mickey’s hands the only thing that kept him standing.

Mickey tongued, teethed, and sucked wetly over Ian’s slacks. He tasted detergent, sweat, and something distinctly Ian underneath it. Too many layers in between them. With a frustrated growl, he attacked Ian’s belt and pants. The black belt _zinged_ over his head then landed with a dull _thud_ behind him.

Thank god that Ian was an upper—one of the guys who preferred to tuck their dicks up. After dragging the fly down using his teeth, Mickey was greeted the wet slick-covered head of Ian’s dick. He immediately latched onto it, mouth watering as he recognized the taste. God, he loved the taste of Ian.

“Fuck,” Ian groaned, bending forward until his forehead hit the backrest. His hands scrambled for Mickey’s biceps. His fingers curled into fists, strong enough for bruises. Mickey’s mouth felt absolutely sinful on his dick—using those thick lips to seal around the tip then sucking. The suction tickled all the way down his urethra, like Mickey massaged his dick from the inside. Sweat erupted all-over his skin. His knees buckled.

They fell to the floor with a crash. The chair skidded behind. Ian landed on his back with Mickey on top of him. Sensual RnB music played in the background. Ian flipped over a semi-shocked Mickey with practiced ease and trapped the older man with legs over his shorter frame. Ian got on all-fours, dipped down to rub their noses together, then play-acted. It was more like pretending to have sex with half their clothes still on rather than dancing.

What a sight they made.

Ian’s buttons were all undone. His white dress shirt hung loosely of his frame, exposing his chest and draped casually to the sides. Mickey lay flushed underneath him with an obvious tent in his pants. Ian’s arms bracketed Mickey’s sides while Mickey had his arms wrapped tenderly over his husband’s neck.

“You’re a fucking sight for sore eyes,” said Ian.

“Tch. When did’ya get all poetic?” Mickey snarked back.

Ian just grinned then flipped over. He repeated the exact same grinding motion but this time with his crotch in Mickey’s face. He heard an obscene moan coming from his husband as a response. His own dick twitched inside his pants.

Mickey lapped at the cock presented to him. The heat of the thigh pressed on the side of his face. They were so close together that every breath was filled with Ian’s scent—something he could never get enough of. It made him dizzy in the head—strong, pungent, and so _Ian_. His vision narrowed to the tent in front of his face. He tasted it on his tongue. That’s exactly what he did.

Ian let out a full-body shudder once Mickey started working his cock in vigor.

Despite being surrounded by all their closest friends and family, Mickey swallowed Ian’s dick like he would at home. He pulled all the tricks he knew to push Ian to the edge—tongue darting out, cheeks hollowing, lips right down to Ian’s base. Only god knows how long he nursed Ian’s cock but his throat felt raw.

Then, without warning, he was being lifted-up by his legs.

“What the fuck!” came his automatic response. His arms wrapped around Ian’s legs on instinct. The world was literally upside down. “Oiy, let me down you fucker!”

“That’s not a proper fireman’s carry!” One of Ian’s workmates yelled from the sides.

Ian’s laugh rang out. “He’s gonna kick my ass if I carry him bridal-style!”

“Imma still beat yo ass, fucker!” Mickey squeezed his arms tighter. “Put me down!” Because, really, all the blood rushed to his head and he was starting to get light-headed for reals. Ian’s dick rubbed the underside of his jaw. It was still fully hard and leaking precum all over the rented slacks.

Ian didn’t walk much. They only went as far as the bar where he placed Mickey—legs bent over top—on the countertop. His arms bulged with the effort to hold the legs there firmly then started a low grind with his hips to Mickey’s face.

The crowd cheered behind them.

Mickey saw them clearly from between Ian’s parted legs. None of his fight or flight instincts triggered. He felt completely safe—free even. Right here; right now. He would not have traded places with anyone in the world, not even for a million dollars.

Ian still had his difficulties dealing with his bipolar.

Mickey still had his reservations with his self-worth.

But, they’ve gone a long way from hiding in back-alley or walk-in freezers.

They were no longer a couple of closeted teens. Nope, they grew up and got settled—a pair of adults trying to make it in a scary world. This was only a new beginning for them, not the end. They lived one day at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be nice~ One of the reasons why I love writing for this fandom is because of the feedback that I get. It doesn't have to be long or inspiring. I'm constantly trying to improve how I write—be it grammar, plot, or characters. I'd appreciate it. :) 
> 
> ***  
>  **If you have a prompt or an idea, you can[INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~**
> 
> **As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).**


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